This night marked evening number three of cheap wine and priceless conversation in the wood paneled, bohemian living room that smells of incense, otherwise known as the Treehouse. (Simon wants to rent it out to filmakers, perhaps ones interested in making seventies themed pornos?)
Last night, I met some of my roommate Roman's cinematographer friends in my living room. We devoured a traditional German dish, Italian Beer and a Pinot Gris with a cartoonish label. I know that Roman is just a subletter like me, but he seemed so at home with one of his oil slicked hair friends in thick rimmed glasses, fitted denim and a nearly sheer white button up shirt. The cheese cloaked casserole we are might be described as the weird and delicious offspring of macaroni and cheese and scalped potatoes and ham. Greasy, and expectational. After dinner his friends talked movie jargon and I zoned out on a olive green seventies style couch with a C-Section gap spewing yellow foam padding.
Tonight, I met a black watermelon seed eating Israelite who's name is Kent--oddly enough, the same as my best friend's red neck boyfriend, a US road tripper named Jeff who hopes to visit a ghost town in death valley CA, and a dude named Richard who attends (or fuck, attended?) Harvard. I liked him far more before discovering either of these details about his life.
Anyways, I think I ought hold off on passing judgement, because Richard, like everyone else I have meet at the Treehouse thus far on my Los Angeles odyssey, is pretty fucking cool. Last year my roommates and I spend to many nights far, far, away from each other absorbed in the glow of our personal computers.
I think that it is good for me to drink wine and surround myself with interesting new faces. And maybe just exciting and fun. I do not always need to think about what is good for me, as if I were a terminally ill, mentally unstable fraught, fucked up piece of brittle, breakable porcelin.
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